It started when we touched, a twitching, aching burn. The freezing warmth of our final embrace. I traced your image on my lawn, my snow angel. Then, removed my cast of clothes to lie starkly in your image. Thrusting my bare, bruised arms into the hot numbness of your empty wings. I beat them one last time before rolling over the white memory. That Christmas, my snowman melted, leaving only a ring: a very green promise because December is a long way from Spring.